A Hellblazer Christmas Carol
by David Tai
Summary: Three Goddesses and a friend! visits Constantine. Set in Dire Fates Continuity.


-*-  
  
Hellblazer  
  
Oh My Goddess  
  
A Christmas Carol  
  
Rod M  
  
David Tai  
  
Trisha Sebastian  
  
-*-  
  
"Got any Christmas spirit, mate? Jack Daniels'll do."  
  
-John Constantine,  
  
"Vertigo: Winter's Edge"  
  
-*-  
  
STAVE I: Finn's Ghost  
  
-*-  
  
London.  
  
Her lights shone in the night a bit brighter, and  
  
yet a bit softer than usual this night, reflecting the mood  
  
of her people on this night before Christmas.  
  
Whether in drunken merriment or with a grudging sort  
  
of acknowledgement, everyone felt the influence of the  
  
holiday. The city was alive with people going to and fro,  
  
to a party, or a family gathering, or just a small meeting  
  
of two. Some celebrated in solitude, raising a glass to  
  
memories of years past, of better days, and hoped for better  
  
days to come. And there would always be a few who would  
  
decide Christmas would be a nice night for suicide.  
  
On the streets, a homeless musician wailed a  
  
melancholy tune on his saxophone, a tune that would elict a  
  
sad smile on anyone's face. His saxophone case laid on the  
  
sidewalk, some money tossed in by passing strangers.  
  
Far above, standing on the fire escape his apartment  
  
building, a blond, somewhat ragged looking man in his 40's  
  
listened to the Christmas blues.  
  
This man was not the kindest of men. Some cringed  
  
at the mention of his name, while others spat and cursed.  
  
Lying, cheating and stealing were his claim to fame, even  
  
among the denizens of Heaven and Hell. News of his arrival  
  
was often met with fear and confusion, and in his wake were  
  
scattered the casualties of his chaos, both innocent and guilty.  
  
He knew others looked down upon him, but he did what had  
  
to be done, made the difficult decisions, and would not repent  
  
for his deeds.  
  
His quick, almost rebellious attitude towards authority,  
  
either spiritual or earthly, was betrayed in his contemptuous  
  
sneer. His thin smirk, usually reserved for flipping off devils  
  
or mocking his so-called friends, was turned towards himself  
  
this evening. He was still wearing his ever-present trenchcoat,  
  
which had accumulated much wear and tear and blood and dirt  
  
in his travels, as he clutched a lit cigarette in one hand and a  
  
bottle of whiskey in the other.  
  
The Magus, John Constantine.  
  
"Merry Christmas," he grumbled sarcastically to  
  
nobody in particular, raising his bottle in a toast. "Bah  
  
bloody humbug."  
  
Behind him, in the apartment, the telephone rang,  
  
unanswered and ignored. Happy and gleeful holiday  
  
television specials flickered on the television, their merry  
  
message ignored. From the apartment next door, the sounds  
  
of revelry and partying drifted in, making John's flat seem  
  
all the more desolate in its inactivity.  
  
On the table, amidst a wasteland of adverts and  
  
other junk mail sat an envelope sent by his sister Cheryl.  
  
He knew what it was without opening it, an invitation to  
  
spend the holidays with his sister Cheryl and niece Gemma.  
  
Any other year, he'd have been glad for the relief.  
  
Any other year.  
  
There'd be too much trouble brought to Cheryl if he  
  
went there now. It was bad enough when magic touched  
  
Gemma's life, and he wasn't sure Cheryl'd forgiven him for  
  
that yet.  
  
He'd have to make it up to Gemma next year. She  
  
always hated him when he didn't show up for the holidays.  
  
The phone rang once more, drawing an irritated glare  
  
from the Magus. That'd probably be Chas calling, inviting  
  
him over despite his wife's whining protests.  
  
He'd certainly have to pass on that.  
  
Slowly, groaning from the soreness of sitting in one  
  
position far too long, John made his way back inside. He  
  
shut the window behind him, slumped into the couch, and  
  
slowly closed his eyes, and hiccuped as an alcoholic bubble  
  
escaped his lips.  
  
"Tsk, John. Can't even hold yer liquer no more, can  
  
ye?"  
  
Lazily, John lifted an eyelid. Standing before him,  
  
in a translucent and ghostly light, the spirit of Brendan  
  
Finn smugly stood. He wasn't much different than he was in  
  
life, a somewhat portly irishman, slightly balding, with the  
  
remaining hair he had left growing a little long and unruly.  
  
"Bloody hell, Brendan, if you're gonna haunt me, at  
  
least do it at a more godly hour."  
  
"Afraid I can't do that, m'boyo. Special request,  
  
y'know, from 'em up there."  
  
"Aw, bugger." John sat up, lighting a cigarette.  
  
"So, what're you supposed to do here?" He looked up to see  
  
Brendan busy raiding the refrigerator.  
  
Brendan held up a bottle of Foster's, squinting one  
  
eye critically at the bottle. "Shite, John, don't you have  
  
anything better than this pisswater? Ah well..." He slammed  
  
the fridge behind him, tossing John a bottle of his own.  
  
Taking a seat next to John, Brendan sighed. "John,  
  
John, John. Ye gonna hate me after I tell ya." He popped  
  
his bottle open and took a big swig, before looking at John  
  
sadly.  
  
John smirked. "Oh? Like what? You're the Spirit  
  
of the Bloody Past or some shite like that?" he commented as  
  
he drank from his own bottle.  
  
"Actually..."  
  
The moment ceased to be amusing.  
  
"No, you're kidding, you're fucking kidding me."  
  
"I wouldn't say I'm the Spirit of the Bloody Past,  
  
no. More like, wot wossisname.... Bob Marley?"  
  
John scowled, tapping his cigarette on the ash tray.  
  
"Jacob."  
  
"Ah, aye, Jacob Marley."  
  
John looked Brendan over. "Shouldn't you have  
  
chains, then? 'I wear the chains I forged in life' and  
  
whatnot?"  
  
"Well, if I was sent to Hell, I suppose I'd have  
  
chains..."  
  
Resigned to a night of haunting, John seemed to  
  
slump into his seat, defeated. "Well, fine, if I'm to be  
  
haunted, it might as well be you."  
  
"Yer da' wanted the gig too," said Brendan. "I'm  
  
sure that would've gone down well with'ye."  
  
John laughed bitterly. "Ah, yeah, another Christmas  
  
with the old man telling me what a worthless shit I am."  
  
Brendan smirked. "See? Aren't ye glad I volunteered  
  
for this gig? And I gotta say, there's a fun night for you  
  
planned ahead. Probably better than pub crawlin'. Jaysis,  
  
this is your life Constantine." He swept his hands apart like  
  
a game show host, grinning widely.  
  
With a deep breath, John finished off his cigarette  
  
quickly. He tossed it at the ash tray, then looked at  
  
Brendan curiously. "Oi, since when do you work for Heaven?"  
  
"Since they decided not to kick me out, considerin'  
  
all the daft shit I pulled. St. Peter wanted me head after  
  
the Irish question, so I hadta cool it."  
  
"Heh. Right then, let's start?"  
  
Brendan cleared his throat, as if getting ready to  
  
make a speech. "I'd preach t'ye about your life, but  
  
considerin' wot I did in mine, I'd be a bloody hypocrite. So  
  
I'll just say this: you will be haunted, by Three Spirits."  
  
John raised an eyebrow. "Speech was kinda short,  
  
wasn't it?"  
  
"Would you prefer the unabridged version, Johnny?"  
  
He smirked. "No thanks."  
  
"Aye. And with that, I think I'll take me leave."  
  
And Brendan Finn faded away.  
  
"What, that's it for you?"  
  
"I've done my bit, Johnny," said Brendan's  
  
disembodied voice. "Try t'have a happy holidays. And get  
  
some fuckin' Guinness. Don't ever let me catch you with  
  
that pisswater in yer fridge again, hear?"  
  
And then John Constantine was alone.  
  
-*-  
  
STAVE II: The First of the Spirits  
  
-*-  
  
Sitting on the couch, John eyed the clock warily,  
  
watching the hands tick away the seconds as the first hour  
  
past midnight approached. If he remembered the story right,  
  
the first spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Past, appeared at one,  
  
the Ghost of Christmas Present at two, and the Ghost of  
  
Christmas Future at three.  
  
Hrm.... the Past was the childlike figure, the  
  
Present was the jolly giant, and the future was Death. He  
  
wondered if he'd get the same treatment. With a smile he  
  
recalled the anthromorphic manifestation of Death, and she  
  
was far from a robed entity with a scythe. She was rather  
  
cute, actually, and considering how many times he'd cut it  
  
close in his life, he was already somewhat familiar with  
  
her.  
  
Maybe he'd finally get her to have a drink with him?  
  
Heh.  
  
Probably not. Oh well, dream a little dream...  
  
And suddenly his television turned on, with a  
  
shapely, tall, tanned, almost cat-like platinum blond woman  
  
on its screen. John scowled.  
  
"Oh," he said, disappointed. "It's you."  
  
//"Well Happy Holidays to you too, wiseguy,"// said  
  
a somewhat offended Urd from within the TV screen. //"You  
  
DO know why I'm here, right?"//  
  
"Spirit of Christmas Past, I presume," he said  
  
dryly.  
  
//"Bingo, John-boy. Though to be honest, I'd just  
  
let you rot, but I really couldn't say no to this gig."//  
  
John raised an eyebrow. "And why not?"  
  
With a smirk, Urd leaned forward. //"Part of the  
  
job, John-boy."//  
  
"Uh huh." He slumped back into the couch, unamused.  
  
On second thought, it seemed entirely appropriate that the  
  
Spirit of Christmas Past was someone that didn't like him.  
  
He didn't like his past anyway. "So, shall we?"  
  
//"Come on over and touch the screen,"// said Urd.  
  
"There's better ways to know me, y'know," quipped  
  
John.  
  
//"Veeeery funny. Just shut up and do it."//  
  
"Yes mistress! Got a whip and some leathers to go  
  
with that, have you?"  
  
//"SHUT UP!"//  
  
And without further ado, John touched the television  
  
screen and suddenly was reduced to digital static, traveling  
  
through endless miles of cables. Time seemed to linger on  
  
forever, yet be only a passing second.  
  
And then he found himself sitting on a very plushy  
  
recliner. In front of him was the largest television screen  
  
he'd ever seen in his life, indescribably large, a size  
  
which put the screen in New York's Times Square screen to  
  
absolute shame.  
  
"Welcome to UrdTV," said a voice beside him. John  
  
turned to look, and saw another recliner next to his, with  
  
Urd in it. She held a remote control, and the table between  
  
them was filled with beer bottles.  
  
"Interesting," he replied. "This thing gets the  
  
sports channel, yeah?"  
  
Urd nodded. "Yeah, but not tonight." She aimed the  
  
remote, pressed a button, and suddenly the screen was  
  
divided into dozens of smaller screens, each showing a  
  
segment of John's life.  
  
"Look familiar?" asked Urd.  
  
He gazed up at the endless scenes and saw his  
  
life... a montage of images he'd seen all too often, of  
  
loves lost, betrayed, killed, spurned, of friends betrayed  
  
and burned, of every little dirty deed that soiled his soul.  
  
"My my my," said Urd. "So many memories, so little  
  
time."  
  
"I'm all too familiar with the smoking ruins of my  
  
past, thank you," replied John. It was true, to, as he'd  
  
faced down the ghosts of his past misdeeds many times by  
  
now.  
  
Urd shrugged. "Fortunately for you, reviewing The  
  
Worst of John Constantine, isn't what's called for at the  
  
moment. And, as you say, it's old news by now. Instead, I  
  
think it's appropriate that we go somewhere you've forgotten  
  
by now."  
  
Once more, Urd took aim with the remote, and this  
  
time the dozens of screens merged into one vision, of a  
  
cloudy winter day, high above Liverpool as the snow fell down  
  
gently. The view from the television slowly panned down,  
  
focusing on the thousands of people below. It moved as the  
  
focus became narrower, moving towards the city, until  
  
finally it came to view a scruffy looking little boy,  
  
wandering aimlessly through the city streets.  
  
"I guess... I guess that's me," said John.  
  
And suddenly he was gone from the comfy chair,  
  
instead standing in those streets of old, a transparent  
  
ghost next to the boy that he once was. A ghostly Urd  
  
appeared next to them a moment later.  
  
"Y'know, you didn't look too shabby as a kid," she  
  
said, bowing down to peer at young John's face. With a  
  
smile, she ruffled her fingers through his hair, though they  
  
passed through with no effect at all. "Tell me, John, do  
  
you remember this place?"  
  
The Magus hmmed as he took a look around. They were  
  
on a bridge hanging over a low canal, with slabs of ice and  
  
water flowing beneath them.  
  
"Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if you didn't,"  
  
said Urd teasingly. "What with your history of alcohol and  
  
drug abuse, probably fried away some important brain cells  
  
there."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"So do you remember?"  
  
"... vaguely."  
  
"Well, that's what I'm here for, Mister Magus.  
  
Anyway, meet John Constantine, 8 years old. After another  
  
verbal lashing from your father, you've run away from home."  
  
John nodded. "Right, what now?"  
  
"Just watch."  
  
And they watched, as Young John stood on the bridge,  
  
kicking stones into the stream. His expression was solemn,  
  
especially so for a boy his age.  
  
"John! Oi, John!"  
  
Both Constantines turned to see who called, and a  
  
lanky looking boy, goofy in his general appearance, appeared  
  
at the foot of the bridge.  
  
"Hi Gaz," replied Young John, his voice not very  
  
enthusiastic.  
  
"Who's this?" asked Urd.  
  
"Gaz," said John quietly. "Gary Lester, good old  
  
Gaz."  
  
As the elder John spoke, little Gaz trotted happily  
  
across the bridge, then slipped on a patch of ice and fell  
  
flat on his face.  
  
Both Constantines frowned.  
  
The elder Constantine shook his head sadly. "A  
  
clumsy idiot from beginning to end."  
  
Urd blinked. "Oh, he's one of the dead, huh?"  
  
"Mm-hm."  
  
"Lookit wot I got, John!" Gaz said happily, lifting  
  
a rumpled brown paper bag.  
  
"'nother dead frog, Gaz?"  
  
"No, this!" And with a dramatic reach within the  
  
bag, Gaz pulled out a can of spray paint and a towel.  
  
"Going to spray paint the bridge?" asked young John.  
  
"Even better!" replied Gaz eagerly. "M'gonna sniff  
  
it!"  
  
Young John looked skeptical. "Sniff it? Are you  
  
mad? What's that supposed to do?"  
  
"It makes y'feel great! Here, watch!"  
  
They all watched as little Gaz eagerly sprayed paint  
  
into the cloth, then put his face next to it and inhaled  
  
deeply. The younger Constantine laughed and egged Gaz  
  
to go on, while the older Constantine just frowned.  
  
"His mom always did say I was a bad influence,"  
  
muttered the elder Constantine.  
  
Urd shook her head. "This was your friend, was he?"  
  
John smirked. "Well, someone had t'do it."  
  
Eventually, Gaz offered young John the towel.  
  
Before John could try, a screeching voice yelled out and Gaz  
  
bolted like there was no tomorrow, taking the can with him.  
  
A moment later, Gaz's mother passed by, running angrily  
  
after her son. Young John, knowning a good time to exit  
  
when he saw one, quietly moved on.  
  
By reflex, John fished in his pockets for a  
  
cigarette. Being an astral projection, there wasn't much  
  
point to doing it but he did it anyway. Needless to say,  
  
there were no cigarettes.  
  
"Good ol' Gaz went on to bigger'n better drugs,"  
  
said John as he and Urd followed his younger self down the  
  
suburban Liverpool streets. "And then he messed with demons...  
  
and the rest is history."  
  
"Was he your only friend?" asked Urd.  
  
"At this point in my life, I think he was."  
  
Young John walked onwards, past empty streets and  
  
through crowded walkways, with no real destination in sight.  
  
A young girl several years his senior rushed up from behind  
  
him and grabbed him by the jacket collar.  
  
"John! Where've you been?"  
  
Urd smiled. "The plot thickens. Who might this  
  
be?"  
  
Though he had a feeling she knew already, John  
  
answered. "My sis, Cheryl." They both watched with amused  
  
smiles as Cheryl pulled young John home, chiding him every  
  
step of the way. The elder John watched her, stared in  
  
fascination. She was as beautiful as he'd remembered, a  
  
radiant and fiery young girl, always pulling John's reigns  
  
in when he went wild, always holding him close when his  
  
heart was wounded.  
  
"She... was a lot like... like a mom to me, as best  
  
as she could be anyway."  
  
"Why Constantine, if I didn't know better, I'd think  
  
that was genuine love I hear in your voice."  
  
John smirked. "Maybe it is."  
  
"Hm... I think it's time," said Urd.  
  
"We finished?"  
  
"Nope, time to fast forward a bit."  
  
And after a brief moment of static, they found  
  
themselves inside a modest two-story house, moderately  
  
decorated with Christmas ornaments. In the kitchen, Cheryl  
  
was looking over assorted things on the stove. Young John  
  
sat by the Christmas tree, turning a small, gift-wrapped  
  
package over in his hands.  
  
Unseen and unheard, Urd and John watched John's  
  
young counterpart with interest. The elder John looked  
  
around. "Hm. Something's missing," he said.  
  
Little John seemed to notice as well,  
  
looking around with some apprehension. "Where's dad?" he  
  
asked.  
  
Cheryl frowned slightly at the question, but didn't  
  
break her stride as she adjusted knobs on the stove and  
  
moved dishes into the oven. "Dad... he's working overtime."  
  
"So 'e won't be in?" asked little John.  
  
"No, he won't."  
  
Young John smiled brightly. "So s'just you'n me,  
  
sis?"  
  
"Looks that way, Johnny."  
  
"Good!"  
  
"John, that's not a nice thing to say!" chided  
  
Cheryl.  
  
"I don'care, I hate him. I'd rather be with you  
  
anyway." Cheryl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile  
  
just a little.  
  
Urd blinked. "So, didn't like your old man?"  
  
"He's in hell," said John. "I left him there."  
  
"Ouch, that was a hell of a thing to do."  
  
"Trust me, he had it coming."  
  
Little John, meanwhile, was busy turning over the  
  
wrapped gift with his name on it. Cheryl chastised him for  
  
it, telling him to wait till after dinner. Amazingly, John  
  
did wait, though it seemed that being alone with Cheryl  
  
lightened the boy's spirits from the glum state he'd been in  
  
earlier in the day.  
  
John scratched his chin as he looked upon his  
  
younger self sitting down to dinner with Cheryl. "Y'know, I  
  
think that might've been the most peaceful Christmas I'd  
  
ever had."  
  
"You'd forgotten all about it too," said Urd.  
  
"Yeah," he said sadly. "I guess I did."  
  
At last, young John finished his dinner and  
  
immediately charged towards his gift from Cheryl. Before  
  
she could stop him, little John tore the wrappings away from  
  
his gift and squealed with delight. Held in his hands was  
  
an amateur magic show kit, complete with wand, magic rings,  
  
cards, and tophat.  
  
"The magic kit!" young John shouted happily. "You  
  
got it!"  
  
Cheryl laughed. "Well, I couldn't let my only  
  
little brother down, could I?" She embraced him from  
  
behind, cuddling the smaller boy lovingly. Both Johns  
  
looked mildly embarrassed, and the younger John squirmed  
  
slightly under his sister's embrace. "Aw, sis, c'mon, cut  
  
it out."  
  
"Just promise me you won't run away anymore?"  
  
At this, both Johns frowned.  
  
"Promise me, John," repeated Cheryl. "You know how  
  
much I worry'bout you when you run off like you do!  
  
Please?"  
  
"Aw... awright."  
  
Cheryl smiled. "Thanks, Johnny. Love ya." She  
  
gave him a kiss on the forehead then ruffled his hair. The  
  
older Constantine turned away from the scene, even as young  
  
John eagerly tried some of the magic tricks with an  
  
attentive Cheryl as an audience.  
  
Urd put a hand on his shoulder. "You know, she  
  
really was too good to you."  
  
John didn't turn around, still staring out at  
  
the snowfall outside. "Yeah, maybe she was," he flatly  
  
replied.  
  
"You were lousy at keeping promises, weren't you."  
  
It wasn't a question, but instead, more of an accusation.  
  
Before John could reply, she hit the 'fast forward' on the  
  
remote once more. The world burst into blurs and static for  
  
a moment.  
  
"Hey, what-"  
  
"Ten years later," answered Urd. "Look around."  
  
The house hadn't fared well in the passing of ten  
  
years, with peeling wallpaper and a browned floor. It spoke  
  
of a lack care, a decay of morale. Sitting at the kitchen  
  
table was a middle-aged one-armed man, balding, with stringy  
  
white hair and a craggy face, along with Cheryl and a very  
  
nondescript, plain gentleman. They sat around the kitchen  
  
table, around a Christmas dinner with candles, though the  
  
mood there was hardly warm and happy.  
  
"I told ye the little bastard'd skip on us!" the  
  
one-armed man  
  
"That's your dad?" asked Urd  
  
"Mm-hm," said John, nodding. The hatred he held for  
  
the old man was evident in the level glare John was giving  
  
him. "Yeah, that's him."  
  
"And the fella with Cheryl?" asked Urd.  
  
"Cheryl's future hubby," replied John with distaste.  
  
"Tony Masters. All the spine and personality of a sponge."  
  
"I'm sure he's got his reasons, dad," said Cheryl,  
  
sticking up for John as he knew she would.  
  
"DON'T YOU TRY AND DEFEND THE BOY!" her father  
  
raged. "He can go t'hell for all I care."  
  
"Dad!"  
  
"He's why yer mother's DEAD!"  
  
Cheryl sighed, exasperated. She, and John, had  
  
heard this one a hundred times over.  
  
Unseen by them, John shook his head. "One Christmas  
  
I didn't mind missing."  
  
"You sure about that?" asked Urd.  
  
John stayed silent.  
  
Lifting the remote once more, Urd hit the fast  
  
forward button. A moment later, they found themselves in a  
  
different household, a place of fresh paint and new  
  
furniture. Christmas decorations were everywhere,  
  
especially around the fireplace where a tall decorated tree  
  
stood proudly. Near the fireplace, a television played 'A  
  
Christmas Carol', the 1947 version with John Carradine as  
  
Scrooge. Cheryl sat on the couch, a few years older but  
  
still beautiful to John. On her lap was a little girl, the  
  
spitting image of Cheryl, with long brown hair tied back in  
  
a ponytail.  
  
Urd saw all this and smiled. "Cozy little family  
  
they have here. Your niece, I guess?"  
  
"Yeah," he said quietly, as if to not disturb the  
  
peace of the moment. "That's m'little princess."  
  
Urd smiled. "She's beautiful."  
  
"Mum, when's unca John gonna come?" asked Gemma.  
  
Cheryl's expression darkened. "He... he shows up  
  
whenever he can, luv."  
  
"He's coming tonight, right?" asked Gemma. "He  
  
promised he would."  
  
John scowled. "I get the idea."  
  
Urd shook her head. "Just a little longer."  
  
"Gemma..." Cheryl hesitated, searching for a  
  
gentler way to tell things as they were. Instead, she lied.  
  
"Yes, he'll show up, sooner or later. So don't you worry  
  
about it, okay?"  
  
Urd cast a sideward glare at John. "Just curious,  
  
Constantine. Where were you on this particular Christmas?"  
  
John looked uncertain, a little ashamed. "I was...  
  
I was..."  
  
With a click of the button, Urd changed the channel.  
  
After a moment of static, they found themselves in the  
  
middle of a dingy apartment, thick with hazy smoke and  
  
incense and the sharp smell of alcohol. Young men and women  
  
were everywhere, partying wildly, all in some state of  
  
undress. Loud music was blaring from a stereo, though it  
  
seemed everybody was too occupied with someone else to pay  
  
it much heed.  
  
Under the Christmas tree, between a naked girl's  
  
legs, beer bottle in one hand, a tit in the other, slept  
  
young rebel John Constantine.  
  
Urd stared down at the younger Constantine with  
  
disgust. "Well, I see you've got your priorities."  
  
To her surprise, John didn't defend himself.  
  
Instead, he looked away, sullen as ever. "I've seen  
  
enough," he said. "We can leave now."  
  
"Yeah, we can."  
  
And without further ado, she aimed the remote at him  
  
and hit the power button. John Constantine suddenly found  
  
the world turning into static, and then dark oblivion...  
  
-*-  
  
Tokyo, Japan.  
  
Skuld's room.  
  
The little brunette goddess frantically tried to  
  
organize the scenes for her part in the drama. The youngest  
  
of the three Norns, Skuld's brow furrowed, her goddesses  
  
marks standing out in sharp relief against her skin. She  
  
had to come up with something for John. And she had very  
  
little idea what to do.  
  
It wasn't easy. There were so many possibilities.  
  
And most of them were icky.  
  
Skuld would've asked Belldandy to help, but  
  
Belldandy was already on her way to see John. And she  
  
didn't want to ask Urd. Urd would have probably made fun of  
  
her, and she didn't want to hear that.  
  
She didn't know what else to do. There wasn't  
  
anyone she could ask.  
  
"Yoo hoo! Anyone home?"  
  
Skuld blinked. She recognized that voice.  
  
No. Oh no.  
  
"PEORTH!"  
  
A young brunette goddess swept into the room with  
  
the flair of an artiste, something Skuld didn't think she  
  
was entitled to, no matter how well she did it. Among the  
  
goddesses she had a fairly exotic uniform, an ebony thong  
  
and tube top encircled by wide, golden, belt-like ribbons  
  
about her torso which almost gave the impression of a gift  
  
ribbon waiting to be untied. While the three sisters grew  
  
their hair long, beyond their backs, Peorth kept hers much  
  
shorter, stopping a few inches below her jaw. The sole  
  
exception to this was her ponytail, which snaked down the  
  
length of her back in graceful slight curves.  
  
This was Peorth, goddess of mystery, and  
  
self-proclaimed chief rival of Belldandy's at the Goddess  
  
Offices.  
  
Skuld mainly saw Peorth as a pretentious nuisance.  
  
"PEORTH! GIMME BACK MY ROMANCE COMICS!"  
  
Oh yes, and a thief as well.  
  
Peorth ignored the protest with the air of an  
  
aristocrat, tossing her short brunette tresses over her  
  
shoulders. Instead, she peered over Skuld's shoulder at the  
  
monitor, giving her a wide smile. "Ah, running through a  
  
knotty problem, dear?" Peorth patted Skuld on the head, even  
  
as she read the scenarios running through the computer.  
  
Fuming, Skuld ducked out from under her. If there  
  
was anything she hated, it was being treated like a little  
  
kid. Which was another reason to be annoyed at Peorth.  
  
After a moment of rapid typing, Peorth straightened  
  
up with the air of a satisfied cat, and then turned to  
  
Skuld. And smiled. "There, these might help." With a  
  
wink, she turned and walked away.  
  
Skuld blinked.  
  
And blinked some more.  
  
And then turned back and read the new script...  
  
"Yipe! Oh, no... no, he's not going to like this."  
  
...and decided to disregard them.  
  
And she continued on her search.  
  
-*-  
  
STAVE III: The Second of the Spirits  
  
-*-  
  
John lurched upwards and rolled off the couch, landing  
  
hard on the bare floor. "Christ," he said, rubbing his palm  
  
over his eyes. How long had he been asleep? He looked at  
  
the clock. Ten to two.  
  
He'd fallen asleep on the couch. That's what  
  
appeared to have happened anyway, and the discomfort in his  
  
neck and back was reminding him of it. With a groan, he  
  
rose from the couch and stretched. Twisted muscles strained  
  
to straighten out, while various bones popped into place.  
  
For a moment he wondered if it had all been a dream  
  
after all. The details of the event were all still in his  
  
head, and yet seemed to grow hazy.  
  
The two opened bottles of Fosters by the couch, one  
  
his, one Brendan's, quickly dismissed that notion.  
  
"Ah, shite."  
  
He shook his head, running his fingers though his  
  
mop of hair. He felt a tinge of regret, thinking back  
  
on those times he'd let Cheryl and Gemma down. If Urd  
  
wanted to make him feel regret, she'd done her job. It  
  
wasn't anything new to John, though there was one bit of  
  
silver lining to Urd's tour, it helped him remember.  
  
It really had been a while since he remembered  
  
_that_ Christmas, just him and Cheryl. They tried to make  
  
popcorn later and ended up making nothing but a mess. He's  
  
the one who caught hell from his dad the next day.  
  
John grinned. "But it was worth it."  
  
He staggered to the bathroom and turned up the tap.  
  
He plunged his hands under the spray, cupping them and threw  
  
some of the water on his face. Off in the distance, the  
  
bells of the tower rang twice. John paused as he heard  
  
them, reminded of what had happened so far, and what was  
  
scheduled to be so far.  
  
Two in the morning, that meant the second of the  
  
spirits would be coming. He tried to recall her name...  
  
Bell... Belladona? Belldandy? Something like that. All he  
  
remembered of her was that she was certainly more pleasant  
  
than Urd.  
  
"Bloody stupid, all this is," he muttered, shaking  
  
the water out of his hair.  
  
//I'm sorry, John, but we need to do this.//  
  
John looked up to see a friendly face looking back  
  
at him from his mirror. "Right on time, then," he said to  
  
her.  
  
Her soft brown eyes brightened at him, and she  
  
smiled beautifully. //May I come in?//  
  
"Why not," he sighed. "Seems I'll be getting the  
  
lot of you tonight. Come on in."  
  
A head with brown hair pushed through, followed by  
  
one shoulder, then the next. Belldandy stepped lightly down  
  
from the mirror, sitting on the edge of the sink. Her robes  
  
settled around her like the wings of a dove, as she smiled at  
  
him. "I can't say that I'm as upset as you are. I think that this  
  
may do some good for you."  
  
John took out a cigarette from a pack from his  
  
pocket and lit it up. "Me? Good?"  
  
Belldandy gave him a reproving look. "There are  
  
things within you that are good, John Constantine. We both  
  
know they are there."  
  
John shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Yeah?  
  
So what?"  
  
"This is a chance for you to recognize those things  
  
and to change your life accordingly," Belldandy said,  
  
reaching out to pinch off his cigarette.  
  
"If I'm going through this whole charade, can't you  
  
at least let me have a fag?"  
  
"No." There was no wavering in her voice, and John  
  
sighed.  
  
"Well, then. Let's get it over with. Spirit of  
  
Christmas Present, blah, blah..." He looked around him,  
  
curiosity on his face. "Isn't there supposed to be food of  
  
some sorts?"  
  
Belldandy smiled indulgently. "I'm not that kind of  
  
spirit. Take my hand," she said, extending it to him.  
  
"We're going to visit some friends of yours."  
  
He looked at her warily. "You sure you want to nip  
  
around to my friends' first?"  
  
"What better way to show you what you're missing out  
  
on." With that, Belldandy pulled him through the mirror.  
  
Five seconds later, she reappeared with John in tow.  
  
"Didn't expect that, did you?"  
  
Belldandy shuddered. "Do Eddie and Grant do that  
  
every Christmas?"  
  
"As long as I've known them, anyway."  
  
"On second thought, perhaps we should go over to  
  
your sister Cheryl's house instead."  
  
John fought a smirk. "Right."  
  
-*-  
  
Belldandy pushed through the hallway mirror, tugging  
  
John forward. As before, they were in ghostly garb, pale  
  
figures compared to the brightly colored room that greeted  
  
them. A fire burned merrily in the fireplace, where the  
  
stockings were hung. Cheryl's husband was sitting in an  
  
easy chair, dozing with headphones on. He had a happy  
  
contented smile on his face.  
  
"You're gonna be late, Gemma. Hurry up!"  
  
Gemma came rushing in from the back of the house.  
  
She was dressed warmly, carrying a bag full of gifts. "I  
  
was just wrapping the last package, mum." She reached over  
  
and kissed Cheryl on the cheek. "Sure you don't want to  
  
come with me?"  
  
"Wait a minute, where's she going?" John asked.  
  
"They always spend Christmas here at the house."  
  
"Wait, John."  
  
Cheryl laughed. "I'm sure you'll be fine without  
  
your mum tagging along." The doorbell rang.  
  
"That's my ride," Gemma said. John noticed her face  
  
growing sad. "You'll tell me if Uncle John calls?"  
  
Cheryl's face grew cold for a brief instant, then  
  
brightened again. "Yes, I will." She reached up and  
  
tightened the scarf around Gemma's neck. "Don't be late for  
  
dinner."  
  
Gemma laughed. "I won't." She rushed to the door  
  
and opened it. "Ready to go, Susan?"  
  
A tall girl with stepped forward and kissed her on  
  
both cheeks. "I'm always ready. Let's go, Gemmie."  
  
"Gemmie?" John peered at the stranger. "She calls  
  
her Gemmie? Who is this person? How come I've never seen  
  
her before?"  
  
"Susan's a good friend of Gemma's. They're in the  
  
same history class in college," Belldandy said as the two  
  
girls walked arm in arm down the street. "It's something  
  
you might have known had you been over to see Gemma in  
  
the dorms like she asked."  
  
John looked sharply at Belldandy at that, but there was  
  
no look of accusation like he received from so many others.  
  
In her face, he saw wistful regret.  
  
"It's not my fault," John protested.. "Things just  
  
happen..."  
  
"I never said you were at fault, John," Belldandy  
  
said with a smile. "It's obvious that you love her."  
  
"Of course I love her!"  
  
"Then why don't you say it more often?" John was  
  
silent, as Belldandy walked through one of the walls of the  
  
house and into the kitchen. He followed her there to see  
  
Cheryl setting the table. She already had three plates out  
  
and reached up to get a fourth. Then, looking thoughtfully  
  
at the phone, then the clock, she snorted in disbelief.  
  
"Why should I expect him to call? Why should I  
  
expect him to come?" Cheryl snorted in derision. "He never  
  
does, lousy bastard." Still, John could see the utter  
  
disappointment on her face.  
  
"Is there any reason why you don't go to see them  
  
more often?" Belldandy said, stepping out of the way as  
  
Cheryl closed the cupboard door and crossed to the oven.  
  
John shrugged. "I don't want them caught up in my  
  
messes." His face turned somber. "I try to keep it away  
  
from them as best as I can."  
  
"Oh, John." The words were a long sigh. "Do you  
  
have to be so naive?"  
  
John whirled around. "What?"  
  
"Haven't you learned enough about magic?" Belldandy  
  
turned to look at Cheryl again. "Here's happiness, and a  
  
home. Family who cares about you. This takes more magic  
  
than dispelling a demon."  
  
"If you knew what I've been through--"  
  
"I do. I've read your files. It is part of my duties as the  
  
goddess of the Present," she said with a smile. "I know  
  
exactly what has happened to you to make you into the  
  
man you are today." As Cheryl stirred some pie filling and  
  
poured it into a crust, Belldandy observed, "She went through  
  
some of the same things you did, too." She turned to look  
  
at John with large gentle eyes. "Wouldn't you be better off  
  
sharing things again, as you did when you were children?"  
  
John stood silently as Cheryl started to hum a Christmas  
  
tune. Despite being angry with him, she was still  
  
able to keep a cheerful expression on her face. "It's not  
  
like that," he protested weakly.  
  
Belldandy gave him a stern look and suddenly John  
  
felt as if he'd done something sacrilegious. Usually, that  
  
sort of thing didn't bother him, but under Belldandy's  
  
compassionate, yet hard gaze, he found that he couldn't look  
  
her in the eye.  
  
"Come with me, John, we have one more stop to make."  
  
John followed Belldandy into the hallway mirror and stepped  
  
out into the London streets. John looked back at the large  
  
department store window.  
  
"How'd you do that?" he asked. "I thought your  
  
domain was just mirrors."  
  
"It has a reflective property," Belldandy pointed out gently.  
  
The cold wind whipped down the street, making the leaves in the  
  
bushes rustle, but Belldandy walked on, her hair and clothes  
  
untouched by the wind.  
  
John followed her down the street, searching his  
  
pockets in vain for a pack. "Where to next, O fearless  
  
leader?"  
  
The sarcastic remark seemed to bounce off of  
  
Belldandy's robes. "We're going to see another friend of  
  
yours. I checked in on his whereabouts," she added hastily  
  
as she saw John about to open his mouth to remind her about  
  
the earlier incident. "He's on the phone right now."  
  
They turned around a corner. A large black cab was parked  
  
next to a phone booth. Inside, a dark-haired swarthy solidly built  
  
man with a square jaw, faintly thug-like in appearance, was on the  
  
phone. John recognized him immediately.  
  
"Chas?" John strode up to the booth. "Hey, Chas!"  
  
"They can't hear or see you, John," Belldandy  
  
reminded him gently, standing behind him.  
  
"Oh, he can't, can he?" John grinned. "It's a good  
  
thing, too, 'cause he's a simple-minded pussy-whipped  
  
tosser!" He leaned in closer to the booth, grinning madly.  
  
"John!" Belldandy said, appalled, as he laughed  
  
uproariously. She turned the look of admonishment and  
  
sorrow back on him again. "If you could hear what he was  
  
saying and to whom..." she said, as a small speaker  
  
appeared with a wave of her hand.  
  
//Frank William Chandler! Yer gonna catch yer death  
  
of cold! Get yer butt back here an' have dinner with yer  
  
family like you should!//  
  
"Honey, I gotta find out if he's okay. I haven't seen him  
  
in over a week." Chas leaned against the door and sighed.  
  
//'e's a drunk, a bum. He's always gettin' you inta  
  
trouble.// The voice turned pleading. //You don't need a  
  
friend like 'im. Come home, Frank.//  
  
"He may be a bum, but he's still my friend."  
  
"There ya go, Chas," John crowed. "You tell that  
  
harridan what's what."  
  
Chas looked out into the cold and the dark. By the  
  
way he pursed his lips, John could tell that he was thinking  
  
about his warm house and the fireplace and comparing it to  
  
the cold London air and the mission he was on.  
  
"She's a lousy cook," John confided to Belldandy.  
  
"Last time she made a turkey, she'd forgotten to take the  
  
giblets out." He chuckled in rememberance. "Chas hates it  
  
when she cooks."  
  
"Alright. I'm coming home."  
  
"What?"  
  
//See ya soon, Frank.//  
  
"Right back atcha, luv." Chas hung up the phone and  
  
exited the booth. He took one last look around the street.  
  
"Damn you, John. Damn you to hell." He got into his car  
  
and drove off.  
  
John ran out into the street, waving his fist at the  
  
receding vehicle. "Bastard!" he cried. "Well, fuck you,  
  
too!"  
  
"How many times has he asked you to dinner?"  
  
Belldandy appeared next to him. "And how many times have  
  
you refused?"  
  
John growled. "What's your point?"  
  
"How long is it before your friends start giving up  
  
on you?" She gestured towards the empty street that Chas  
  
disappeared down. "Frank has stuck by you, through thick  
  
and thin. But friendship can't exist in a vacuum."  
  
"So, you're saying someday Chas is gonna disappear  
  
on me? Hah! Like that will ever happen."  
  
Belldandy shook her head, sorrowfully, and said nothing,  
  
turning away.  
  
John didn't miss the expression on her face. "Wait!"  
  
But she had already disappeared, leaving him to stand  
  
alone in the dark street...  
  
-*-  
  
STAVE IV: The Last of the Spirits  
  
-*-  
  
"Belldandy? You there?" John called out into the  
  
London night.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He frowned, not liking the fact that Belldandy had  
  
seemingly ditched him in the middle of the city. Shouldn't  
  
he have been waking up in bed right about now, as if it was  
  
all just a dream?  
  
Around him, the streets of London were quickly being  
  
engulfed in a thick fog. The ground underneath his feet  
  
suddenly felt different too, soft dirt and grass instead  
  
hard London street. In the distance, Big Ben's bells rang  
  
three times.  
  
"Ah, yes, third spirit."  
  
Nothing to do but wait for the inevitable, then.  
  
After all, it was how the story went. He pulled a cigarette  
  
from one pocket and a lighter from another.  
  
Before he had a chance to take his long awaited  
  
smoke break, something emerged from the darkness and fog.  
  
Clad in a hooded cloak, it held a large scythe in its  
  
concealed hands.  
  
He stared at the short figure, as it lifted the  
  
scythe and shook it menacingly, motioning for him to follow.  
  
John shook his head, exhaling a cloud of cigarette  
  
smoke, following as the city began to fade away into  
  
nothingness.  
  
"Okay, Skuld, lose the scythe and the cloak. It's  
  
bloody ridiculous."  
  
The figure pulled the hood back, revealing Skuld's  
  
face. She was not smiling as usual. She tapped the scythe  
  
once, and it became her long-handled mallet. "Hi, John. I  
  
guess you know why I'm here, don't you?" she said, looking  
  
sadly at him.  
  
John frowned. Skuld's body language was of one who  
  
didn't want to do what she had to do, but he wasn't in a  
  
mood to be gentle. "Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase already,  
  
will you?"  
  
Skuld refused to look at him in the eyes. "I'm...  
  
not ready for this kind of task yet, John..."  
  
"Look, I understand already, you're just doin' your  
  
job. So let's get this over with, eh? Then I'll take y'out  
  
for ice cream."  
  
Skuld fidgeted. "Well, I had a hard time finding  
  
nice futures, and..."  
  
"Nice futures?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Skuld, the whole point of this was to make me repent my  
  
ways. Isn't that the way the whole thing is supposed to  
  
work?"  
  
Skuld shuffled her feet against the ground, her  
  
mallet behind her. "But..."  
  
John shook his head. "You're not cut out for this  
  
job, kid." He patted her on the head.  
  
Skuld sulked. "I'm not a kid anymore," she said.  
  
"It's just... just... I can't do this, John!"  
  
There was a sigh. "I can see I'll have to do this  
  
myself."  
  
They spun around. Peorth was there, her thin robes  
  
gathered underneath her, sitting atop a tombstone. She  
  
motioned for them to come closer.  
  
"Bonjour, mon cheri," she said smoothly. "And little  
  
Skuld, of course."  
  
"Beat it Peorth," said Skuld icily.  
  
"Oh, but ma petit enfante, I'm here because of you,"  
  
replied Peorth. "You can't handle the job, so it's my  
  
turn."  
  
Skuld's jaw dropped. "But... but.."  
  
"Feel free to accompany us," said Peorth. "Think  
  
of it as an education."  
  
"Oh, I'll come along!" yelled Skuld. "Just to make  
  
sure you don't try any funny business!"  
  
Much to Skuld's irritation, Peorth ignored her  
  
entirely and was instead turning her attention to John. "If  
  
you will, monsieur Constantine, look over here."  
  
With a sweep of her arm, she indicated some point in  
  
the distance. At the same time, the fog rolled away  
  
revealing a crowd of people dressed in black, all solemn and  
  
sad in appearance. As the fog disappeared, John could see  
  
they were in a graveyard now, and that the scene in the  
  
distance was a funeral. John didn't recognize the faces at  
  
first, but as the crowd thinned, he finally saw Cheryl,  
  
along with Chas, his wife, and their daughter.  
  
Without saying a word, Chas gave Cheryl's shoulder a  
  
gentle squeeze. A moment later, he and his family left  
  
Cheryl alone to mourn.  
  
"Surprised that many people showed up for my  
  
funeral," muttered John.  
  
"Your funeral?" asked Peorth. "This isn't your  
  
funeral."  
  
"Isn't mine? Then whose..." Realization hit John  
  
hard, as his eyes widened and the unlit cigarette dropped  
  
from his mouth. "Jesus, no..."  
  
He rushed up to the tombstone and read its words.  
  
GEMMA MASTERS  
  
Beloved Daughter  
  
John touched the tombstone gently, tears falling  
  
from his eyes as he did. "Not Gemma, no..."  
  
Skuld whispered to Peorth, "Who's Gemma?"  
  
"His niece," Peorth whispered back. "You didn't  
  
read the files, did you?"  
  
John wiped the tears from his eyes and walked back  
  
to Peorth, less swagger in his step and a haunted look in  
  
his eyes. "Tell me," he said, willing himself to stay calm.  
  
"How'd she die?"  
  
"The usual pattern, ever since she was a child,"  
  
replied Peorth. "Got a little depressed, fell into the  
  
wrong crowd, got mixed up in some dangerous things..."  
  
"I wouldn't have allowed it," said John icily.  
  
"This couldn't have happened."  
  
"Ah, but John, you weren't there to stop her."  
  
"So... so where the fuck was I?"  
  
"You died as you lived, my dear Johnny... a mystery."  
  
"Dammit, that's not..."  
  
"If you insist on seeing _one_ possible future,  
  
then..." She looked over meaningfully at Skuld.  
  
Skuld shrank back, but was held in place by John.  
  
He glared, his hand tightening on Skuld's arm. "Show me."  
  
"Y... you're hurting me, John..."  
  
"SHOW ME!"  
  
And Skuld showed him.  
  
-*-  
  
It had been years, it knew that much.  
  
But Time meant nothing here.  
  
Neither did Space.  
  
It knew only that it belonged nowhere.  
  
Where it should have gone, it did not know.  
  
There was Nothing.  
  
It reached out. It felt Nothing.  
  
It looked around. It saw Nothing.  
  
Smell, Taste, Sight, Touch, Sound. Maybe even other  
  
senses. It could no longer remember just how many there  
  
were.  
  
All gone. Except one.  
  
Thought.  
  
It only could think.  
  
And it knew it had been thinking for eternity.  
  
So many things to think about, and no way to do  
  
anything. Regrets, memories, hopes, wishes. Played over  
  
and over and over, simply because it had nothing else to do.  
  
It struggled to remember. What had it been?  
  
It didn't remember. All its dreams, all its hopes,  
  
all its fears, all its despair, all ran together after a  
  
while, until it was unsure what was real and what was  
  
fantasy.  
  
All it could think of, all it wanted, all it ever  
  
remembered, all it ever needed, throughout the timeless  
  
limbo, all mingled.  
  
It went on, throughout the ages, thoughtlessly,  
  
yearning for something, but it didn't know what.  
  
It had forgotten that, once, it was a man named  
  
Constantine.  
  
-*-  
  
And suddenly they were back at Gemma's grave.  
  
The goddess of mystery cast a curious eye at John  
  
Constantine. His expression was unreadable: certainly not  
  
happy, but without despair either. It was... grim.  
  
Peorth felt herself sadden upon hearing Skuld cry  
  
quiety, but hardened herself. There was a job to be done  
  
here, and it wasn't meant to be nice.  
  
"What did you think it was, Johnny?" Peorth asked  
  
him. "Did you think you'd steal into Heaven? Or conquer  
  
Hell, maybe? Too smart for your own good, Constantine, and  
  
now neither side will have you. You're alone. It's a very  
  
rare being, Constantine, who has managed to piss off both  
  
Heaven and Hell into not wanting you. So here you are.  
  
Alone, at last, for eternity. Pretty, isn't it?"  
  
"NO! NO!" Skuld screamed, shaking her head. "He's  
  
not going to be alone!"  
  
Peorth tilted her head, looking sadly towards John.  
  
"Perhaps... but if not this, then something very similar.  
  
You know this, don't you, John Constantine?"  
  
Skuld shook her head, tears flowing, clinging to  
  
John with all the strength she could.  
  
John took a deep breath. "Yeah, it probably is."  
  
He lit up a cigarette and puffed away on it. Damn, but he  
  
needed that.  
  
He looked down at Skuld, who met his eyes with  
  
tear-streaked cheeks.  
  
And then he looked up at Peorth with a fixed stare  
  
and a slight smirk. "Well, all of this, all that you've  
  
shown me, s'not gonna happen."  
  
"Oh?" asked Peorth. "And why is that?"  
  
"Because I won't let it," he said, confidence  
  
creeping back into his voice. His grin didn't quite have  
  
the same cocky self-assuredness, but the gleam in his  
  
eyes...  
  
He would find a way.  
  
Peorth shrugged. "Well, I guess that's the end of  
  
the tour then. Skuld?"  
  
Skuld shook her head frantically.  
  
Peorth was grim. "Do it."  
  
John raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"  
  
And then Skuld, with a loud cry, pushed John  
  
Constantine into the grave of Gemma Masters.  
  
He fell, tumbling head over heels, yelling and cursing as  
  
he did, into the infinite void...  
  
-*-  
  
STAVE V: The End of It.  
  
-*-  
  
John sat up abruptly with a yell, his breathing ragged and  
  
deep, his eyes wide open. A moment's disorientation, and then  
  
he realized that this was his bedroom, and that he was in  
  
bed, still wearing the clothes he had on the previous evening.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, Big Ben struck eight.  
  
John sank back into the bed, letting out a groan as he  
  
settled back into its comforting depths...  
  
"John, are you okay?"  
  
"SHIT!" Nearly falling out of bed in surprise, he  
  
regained his composure and stared at Skuld, sitting on a  
  
chair near the bed.  
  
"_What_ are you doing here?" he asked.  
  
"I was worried about you!" she exclaimed. "I  
  
couldn't leave you like that!"  
  
John gave a long, deep yawn and rubbed one eye with  
  
a palm. With a baleful glare, he looked at the clock, then  
  
sank back into bed.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Kid," said John, his voice muffled by the blanket  
  
and pillows. "G'way. Buy a big goose or something, I'll  
  
take care of it later. I'm goin't sleep, s'too early for this  
  
shit."  
  
"But-"  
  
"'nd lock th'door on yer way out," he said sleepily.  
  
And the trickster-magus Constantine slept, past  
  
the morning and into the afternoon.  
  
When next he awoke, John was in a better mood.  
  
He made his way through the small apartment, pausing  
  
at the living room where two empty Fosters bottles sat.  
  
He looked at the bottles for a minute, and then shook  
  
his head, making his way to the bathroom.  
  
While he was relieving himself, in the distance,  
  
Big Ben struck once.  
  
John looked at a clock and groaned.  
  
"Shite, s'late."  
  
And then he took care of matters.  
  
-*-  
  
Frank "Chas" Chandler had slept in late this day,  
  
having managed to get Christmas Day off despite his career  
  
as a cabbie. It felt good to slowly ease his way into the  
  
day instead of drag himself out of sleep as fast as  
  
possible.  
  
He opened his bedroom door, still yawning as he  
  
walked, pausing to step aside as his toddler granddaughter  
  
streaked by at a wobbling run, naked as a jaybird, dripping  
  
water down the hallway, followed by his towel-waving daughter.  
  
He chuckled as he made his way to the kitchen table and sat  
  
down, reaching over for the morning paper.  
  
And then the doorbell rang.  
  
"Get th'door," crowed his wife from the living room.  
  
Chas grumbled and scratched himself as he went, feeling no  
  
particular need to hurry. He opened the door.  
  
"'lo Chas! Merry Christmas!" said John Constantine  
  
merrily, shoving a massive frozen goose into Chas' arms, as  
  
wide as Chas' stomach and twice as tall.  
  
"What the fuck?!"  
  
Chas wasn't sure how to read the situation. John  
  
was oddly bright-eyed and bush-tailed. Even the cigarette  
  
in his mouth seemed to be burning a bit brighter.  
  
"Sorry I couldn't answer the door last night,"  
  
continued John. "Had an out-of-body experience, you know  
  
how it goes."  
  
"Er..."  
  
"Would love to stick around and feel the holiday  
  
cheer with you'n the old battle-axe, but I've got places to  
  
be today and I'm in a hurry."  
  
"A goose?"  
  
"Yes, a goose," replied John, annoyance creeping  
  
into his voice. "S'the way the story... oh, wait a sec...  
  
shite. It was turkey, not goose. Oh well, enjoy it  
  
anyway."  
  
"Story? What story?"  
  
"Eh? Don't worry about it," replied John dismissively.  
  
"Oh, and put your money on Tiny Tim at the tracks  
  
tomorrow. Easy money."  
  
Chas' face brightened up. Whenever John predicted a  
  
race, he was always right. "Um, thanks, mate!"  
  
"Right then, be seeing you." John promptly shut the  
  
door for Chas, leaving him standing in the hallway, holding  
  
a massive frozen goose in his arms and a befuddled look on  
  
his face.  
  
"Pa? Who was that? That wasn't Uncle John, was it?"  
  
Geraldine asked, coming up to Chas, holding a wriggling,  
  
towel-wrapped armful of toddler.  
  
"Er, um, yeah," Chas stammered. He stared at the door,  
  
disbelivingly, before straightening up and holding out the  
  
goose. "Here, take this to Mum, will ye? Er, never mind,  
  
I'll do it," he said, noting his granddaughter in Geraldine's  
  
arms.  
  
"It's a big honkin' goose, isn't it?"  
  
"Well, John isn't much for doing things half-way."  
  
-*-  
  
Afternoon gave way to evening, and preparations were  
  
being made for a second day of holiday feasting at the Masters  
  
household. Tony Masters sat on the lounger, lost in the bliss  
  
of motivational tapes as he always seemed to be as of late.  
  
Cheryl slaved over the stoves and wondered if some of the  
  
leftovers would be suitable for re-use.  
  
She looked at the kitchen clock and frowned. Gemma  
  
was running a bit late. A part of her wanted to nag her  
  
daughter when she came home, but Cheryl supressed it.  
  
With the way they'd lived their life so far, moving from one job  
  
and part of London to the next, Gemma hadn't a lot of  
  
opportunities to make friends.  
  
The sound of keys jangling and the front door  
  
opening alerted Cheryl of approaching company. A moment  
  
later, Gemma's voice shouted out, "Hi mum! Sorry I'm late!"  
  
"How'd it go?" asked Cheryl.  
  
"Alright, I guess," replied Gemma. She smiled wanly.  
  
"Uncle John ever..."  
  
The frown on Cheryl's face told the story.  
  
Gemma sighed. "Guess I ought t'be used to it by  
  
now."  
  
"Y'know he doesn't mean anything by it," said  
  
Cheryl. "He's always been like that."  
  
"And a merry Christmas to you two, thanks."  
  
Cheryl and Gemma turned to see John, smirking and  
  
standing in the doorway holding two wrapped packages.  
  
"John?"  
  
"Uncle John!" Gemma exclaimed, rushing over to  
  
envelop him in a bear hug. John hastily shifted the  
  
packages to allow her to cling to him.  
  
"Sorry I'm late, princess," John said to Gemma as he  
  
kissed her forehead. He handed Cheryl the presents, smiling  
  
as though this were an ordinary thing for him. "What's for dinner,  
  
then?"  
  
Cheryl tucked the gifts under one arm, reaching over to  
  
give John a hug. "Well, we really don't have much..."  
  
"That's okay, I've got a goose out in the car waiting..."  
  
Gemma raised an eyebrow at that. "Um, it'll take a while  
  
to cook."  
  
"Well, then we can have it tomorrow, eh?" John smirked.  
  
Laughter followed, as the trio headed into the kitchen.  
  
Outside, peering into the living room windows,  
  
four goddesses smiled at each other, nodded, and  
  
left, all except for one.  
  
Skuld remained.  
  
She watched John sit down at the dining table,  
  
laughing while Gemma described her school classmates'  
  
latest antics. She saw Cheryl smile fondly at John and  
  
serve him another piece of roast chicken.  
  
The little goddess clasped her hands together, eyes  
  
closed in happiness, and said a prayer of silent thanks,  
  
and vanished into the starry winter evening. 


End file.
